


Asking For Roses

by authorwithoutaquill



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Christmas Party, F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-27
Updated: 2015-12-27
Packaged: 2018-05-09 16:57:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5548229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/authorwithoutaquill/pseuds/authorwithoutaquill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rose Tyler is a budding journalist who was forced to leave her job in New York because of her boss' infatuation with her. Now back in London with her mum and ex-boyfriend, she's desperately hunting for a position at another magazine. Jackie decides she needs a break and drags her along to her uncle's Christmas Party. There she meets a stranger with strikingly blue eyes and finds something better than a job...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Asking For Roses

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for Timepetalsprompts Weekly Ficlet theme: Stuck with you over the holidays. It does not contain one letter of angst, surprisingly, and is my first ever AU. 
> 
> The title of the fic was inspired by a poem of the same name written by Robert Frost.

She did not want to be here. Rose Tyler, ex-journalist and traveller extraordinaire stuck at her uncle’s Christmas Party. She didn’t want to come in the first place, she really didn’t. Usually she was half-way across the world this time of year - in New Zealand, Australia, Ecuador, or Indonesia. Anywhere warm. Not in snowy, damp, freezing-my-butt-off England. Certainly not in London, with her mother and ex-boyfriend, dressed to the nines, sipping champagne and smiling like her life depended on it.

Which it did, in a way. Well, maybe not her life, but certainly her career. She quit National Geographic two months ago - her boss, a certain Harold Saxon, was making uncalled-for advances since she started working for the magazine - but six months ago he started altering his schedule to travel around with her, appearing in front of her door in the mornings, sending her champagne in the evenings and generally following her around. At first she merely ignored it - turned him down as politely as she could - but he did not take no for an answer.

Thus she had no choice but to move on. She quit the magazine 4 months later, not telling anyone why, afraid it would ruin her chances of getting a job in the industry. Saxon owned half of the world, they said. And while she always believed her colleagues were exaggerating about him, she didn’t want to put her neck on the line. So she left New York - sold her apartment that her father bought her after she got her A-levels - and decided to see what her home country had to offer.

As it turned out, it wasn’t a lot. Going back to NG was out of the question, of course. As soon as Saxon got wind of it, he’d track her down, and while she wasn’t exactly afraid of him, she had no wish to meet him sooner than absolutely necessary. So she tried all the big magazines she could think of - Time, Reader’s Digest, Empire… Hell, she even went to Cosmopolitan and Woman’s Weekly after she got rejected from everyone else, but had no luck.

She had a good 5 years of experience and she liked to think her articles were good. Everyone used to tell her her articles were good. Maybe good to American standards. But apparently, according to the editor-in-chief at Time in London, “her style was too eccentric and out-of-the-box”.

She rolled her eyes, still seeing the man’s red face and beady eyes - he was staring very intently at her décolletage and apparently had no interest in her CV at all. As it turned out, out-of-the-box meant she was a woman and in her early twenties. And while they did not celebrate that fact in America, she had no problem landing a job at National Geographic on her first try. While in good ol’ London-town she had been job hunting for two whole months.

Thinking back now, she was uncertain whether her luck at National Geographic was thanks to her own skills or Saxon’s apparent infatuation with her. The more she thought about it, the less confident she grew in her own abilities.

Which is why her mother suggested she come tonight. To _“have fun, and think about something else besides work”_. At least, that’s what she kept telling her for the whole week leading up to the event. This morning she changed tactics however, when she saw Rose choosing a pink cocktail dress from her wardrobe.

“You can’t wear that, sweetheart. The head of the publishing company will be there on Clive’s party!”

“What publishing company?”

“The one with the fs. The… You know the one! With the same name.”

Rose raised her eyebrows and stared at her mom. Jackie was not good at explaining things.

“Do you mean Faber & Faber?”

“Yes, that’s the one.”

“Mum, what do you want me to do in a publishing company? I’m not a writer. I’m a journalist.”

Jackie wasn’t paying attention - she was digging through her daughter’s wardrobe, hoping to find something suitably grand for the occasion.

“Well, you had those poems years back. When you were still in school. Mickey said they were good!”

Rose chewed her nails. She did write poems back in high school, but she didn’t show them to anyone apart from Mickey and a few close friends. They didn’t seem to make sense to anyone but herself and after her dad’s off-hand comment about not wasting time with silly things like writing poems she stopped entirely.

She never thought about picking it up again, certainly not professionally. She hadn’t written anything in years and although a lot of people commented on how her style was more like fiction than the travel articles she was supposed to be writing, she hadn’t once considered transferring to the fiction branch.

She chewed her nails harder as her mum handed her a dark blue sequined evening gown.

“Put that on. And put your hair up with that nice butterfly comb Shareen got you for your birthday. Who knows? You might catch Mr Faber’s attention. God knows you’re pretty enough.”

“Mum, he isn’t called Mr Faber. That’s just the company’s name! And I don’t even know how to write.”

“Course you do, darling! People love your articles. Remember how much Arianna laughed on the one with the Chinese monkeys.”

Rose sighed and shook her head. That particular article was not funny at all, but her mum’s friend found it hilarious nonetheless. Completely missing the point that the species became endangered a few months ago and that the locals were starting a campaign to raise funds for its protection.

“Yeah, but those aren’t fiction.”

“Well, you could have fooled me with the camel and the tea towels. Anyway, just dress up nicely and if he gives you an offer, take it. No need to look like you want it too bad. Just, you know, glass of champagne, keep smiling. Little flirting never killed anyone.”

Rose just rolled her eyes and got dressed, even putting the butterfly comb in her hair, although she rather thought it was a bit much. Mickey showed up two hours later in a tux and scowled a great deal when Rose broke into a fit of giggles at the sight of him. Jackie wore a modest, green, knee-length dress and even managed to put her hair in a bun - all in all, they looked well-suited to the opera, not Clive’s Christmas Party. Or so Rose thought until they stepped through the door and it became apparent that she was slightly _under_ dressed for the occasion.

And that’s how she got to spend her evening at Mr Crowley’s side (who was indeed the head of Faber & Faber and thus considered himself to be above all and every other people in the room), nodding politely as he explained about the hardship of acquiring quality authors - _quality, Miss Tyler, is the most important thing in the world!_ -, smiling widely at every comment he made and forcing out a laugh or two when the occasion demanded.

Mr Crowley turned out to be a boring old man with entirely too much gel in his hair, who knew a lot about accounting and very little about poetry. He was currently going on about some kind of debate on economics that Rose barely understood a word of and cared for even less. She was just about to excuse herself, not really caring anymore whether they’d think her rude, when something - or rather someone, based on the muffled oomph sound - collided sharply with her back.

She lost her balance completely and stumbled into the person standing opposite from her, spilling all her champagne onto Mr Crowley’s silk tie in the process. He cursed loudly while one of the other men - Aiden? Alan? Adam? she couldn’t remember his name - helped her to her feet. There was a great deal of shouting behind her and sounds of shattering glass. Rose barely had time to straighten her dress when a hand grabbed her own and a pair of amazingly blue eyes smiled at her while the words _“run”_ were whispered in her ear.

She laughed and followed the stranger as they rounded a corner and ran up a flight of stairs. He had his back to her and was taking three stairs at a time - his legs were much longer than hers. He was wearing a battered leather jacket and had closely-cropped, dark hair and a pair of rather large ears. She didn’t catch any of his facial features previously, apart from his eyes and she couldn’t help but wonder what he looked like from the front. Not that she minded the view - he had a rather nice bum.

She smiled to herself and tried to figure out who he was. Maybe he was crashing the party? His attire seemed to suggest that he either didn’t care much for dress codes, or he wasn’t invited at all. Either way she was glad of his appearance. Mr Crowley’s lecture on the monetary situation was killing her slowly.

At the end of the corridor they were running down on there was a large wooden door, intricately carved (Rose couldn’t imagine how much it cost Clive to rent the place). The stranger opened it, pulled her inside and shut it quickly behind them. On the other side was storage room - furniture covered in white sheets, barely enough space for the two of them to stand.

Now that they were safe and not busy running, Rose wanted to ask his name, but before she could open her mouth he turned to her and said, “You alright?”

He had a Northern accent and a very pleasant voice. It sent goosebumps up her arm and she had to turn her head away from those piercing blue eyes.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Bit winded. Out of shape.” She ended with a clumsy little laugh and cringed inwardly. Typical, one man she’s really interested in and her flirting skills flew out of the window straightaway.

He didn’t seem to mind, or even notice though. His smile grew wider and she realized that the scent overwhelming her was coming from him - pine trees and leather, and old books and lime and… something she couldn’t quite name.

“Erm… What was all that racket? The shouting downstairs?”

Trying to strike up conversation seemed like a good way to distract herself from his nearness, but it didn’t quite work. He leaned in conspiratorially and lowered his voice to a half-whisper which sent chills down her spine.

“Oh that? That was nothin’. Just a friend of mine disagreed and I had to straighten him out.”

His eyes sparkled and Rose could feel her breath catch. This was not going the way she wanted at all. She also wondered just what straightening his friend out had meant, but didn’t ask. Instead she looked around, trying to put some space between them, but it was near impossible. The furniture was towering over them - chairs and beds and tables all stacked on top of one another. There were barely enough space for the two of them to fit inside at all, much less move away an inch or two.

It didn’t seem to bother him much. He just jumped onto one of the table tops, crossed his arms and flashed her a grin.

“I’m the Doctor by the way. What’s your name?”

“Rose. Rose Tyler.”

“Rose Tyler,” he seemed to be chewing on the words, rolling them around his tongue, tasting them, trying out how they felt in his mouth. Then he nodded, as if approving of it, and jumped down again, looking down at her, swinging his hands like a little boy on a playdate.

“So, aren’t you gonna tell me your real name, Doctor?”

He smiled even wider and shook his head.

“That’d be no fun. Besides, if they find out you’re my associate, you might get in trouble.”

Rose smiled, although she couldn’t quite decide whether he was serious or not.

“And we wouldn’t want that, now would we?” he carried on, eyes sparkling and suddenly she didn’t care whether he was joking or not.

There seemed to be some kind of electricity between them - a pleasant buzzing in her veins, butterflies in her stomach and a giggle at the corner of her mouth. She didn’t know why, but she was quite sure she’d kiss him soon if they didn’t move out of the crowded space. She cleared her throat and tried to come up with something semi-intelligent to say.

“So, what is it you do then,” she paused, considering the name he’s given her, then shook her head, “if you’re not going to give me a proper name, I shall have to come up with one of my own.”

“What’s wrong with Doctor?”

“Sounds a bit pompous, don’t you think?”

“Nah, it’s a good name.”

“Well, I still won’t just call you “the Doctor”. Let’s see… How about… John Smith? There you go - if you won’t tell me your name, I shall call you John.”

He smiled wider, but didn’t say a word. Rose huffed.

“Alright, Clever Boy, don’t tell me then!”

Boy was a slight overstatement: he must have been in his early forties already - and as such be much older than her - but when he smiled and his eyes lit up he looked a good ten years younger. There was something boyish about his smile, about the way he held himself, about how he bounced on his feet as if he’d just found out school had been cancelled for the day. It was quite endearing, really.

“Well, then, _John_ ,” she tried to emphasize the word as much as she could, to see if it would annoy him, but he didn’t even blink, “what do you do? You know, for a job.”

“I’m a writer,” he declared as if that’d have been the most natural thing in the world. Rose’s eyes lit up and he seemed to take a great deal of pleasure from being able to make her smile.

“A writer? A proper, published writer?”

“Yep. A proper writer, that’s me. Although, to be entirely honest, most people think what I write is gibberish.”

Rose giggled, “Yeah, they think that of me too.”

“Do you write then? What about?”

Suddenly she got shy and couldn’t meet his eyes when she replied, “Oh, I’m not really a writer. I just do articles. For magazines, you know.”

She waited for the dismissing “oh” that people always gave her when she answered the ever present question, but there was none coming from him. She finally looked up to see him looking expectant at her, as if waiting for her to continue.

Rose recovered quickly and carried on, “I used to write in the travel section. For National Geographic. In the New York branch. But… I’m not there now.” She sighed and looked away, fidgeting with her bracelet and avoiding his eyes again.

“Actually, I’m unemployed at the moment. Looking for something else.” She neglected to admit that it was out of necessity, rather than choice, but she was determined to appear in a good light before him.

“Oh really? Well, just don’t pick my line of work. Awfully hard to get paid for writing poetry.”

“Oh, so now you’re saying that you’re a poet too, Doctor?”

“And here I thought you didn’t like my name.”

“I didn’t. But now I know that you’re a poet, I think it fits. Are you the brooding type, or the reciting-on-the-podium-even-when-no-one’s-watching kind? No, wait! Don’t tell me. Both.”

He shook his head slightly and held his hands up as if saying _“you’ve got me”_.

“Bit of both, really. I usually don’t mind performing, but I’m much happier when people leave me alone to write. Not that it’s any good, I’m afraid.”

They moved closer to each other. Rose didn’t notice how or when, and wouldn’t have been aware of it now if John’s nose didn’t bump into hers. They were awfully close. Almost close enough to kiss. She didn’t move away though. Instead she lowered her voice to a whisper and said, “Show me.”

He gave her a crooked smile and closed the distance between them. His lips were warm and incredibly soft. A little sigh escaped her as he ran his tongue over her lower lip and the butterflies in her stomach turned into fireworks.

That night, John Smith wrote a poem with his lips on her skin, a poem that only she could read. He wrote of love and desire, of discovery and trust, of secrets and truths, of companionship and comfortable silences.

And when Rose awoke the next day, with her head on his heart, her legs cramped up from a night spent on the floor, stuck between a table top and a piano, all she could do was smile. She didn’t mind the pain at all, the protestation of her muscles or the dust tickling her nose. All she could feel was his heart beating underneath her, the slow rise and fall of his chest and her own heart filled with love.

She didn’t know this man; didn’t even know his name. But she trusted him. Trusted him with her heart, her hopes and her dreams - even her life. And when he woke up, she was going to tell him that. She didn’t care if it would sound silly and out-of-the-blue. She needed to get it out otherwise she felt like she might burst.

With a smile that left her tongue peeking out from between her teeth, she laid her head back down onto the Doctor’s chest and sighed happily. She’d have to thank her mum for dragging her along. She didn’t get a job, but she found something far better.

And for the first time in years, she felt like writing. Maybe a poem, then. About a stranger. With crystalline blue eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> I'd love to know what you thought, so if you have a minute please leave a comment or click that heart button. Thank you!


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